


The Ashes of the Forest

by BodoniBold



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6483364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BodoniBold/pseuds/BodoniBold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order for her sister Prim to become a healer, Katniss of the House of Firebird must sacrifice her own dreams. She must do her duty to the Twelfth Tribe and conceive a daughter during the night of the Reaping. When Katniss is paired with Peeta of the House of Lark nothing goes as planned and she suddenly owes this strange boy with the piercing blue eyes a debt she cannot repay. Katniss has to decide whether to be loyal to her tribe, her dream of being a hunter, or the strange new feelings Peeta evokes in her.</p><p> Amazon Warrior AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My toes glide in lazy circles over the dewy grass below me as I tilt my face up to the sun and soak in the warmth. I breathe in, letting the smell of pine and oak wash over me. I've always loved this kind of day. _A_ _perfect day_. Today would be perfect, that is, if it weren't for the Reaping tonight.

Some of the glory of the day dissipates at the thought and I open my eyes to find my best friend Gale watching me with the strangest look on her face, head cocked to the side, long dark hair streaming down into her lap, straight black eyebrows drawn down over gray eyes. She's sitting crossed-legged on the very edge of our rock, a stone that's just wide enough to fit both of us.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says. "It's just…you know I'll still be here for you, after the Reaping. You're still my partner, even if you can't hunt for a while."

"You mean for five years, maybe more?" I say. I wilt, collapsing down onto the hard surface underneath me, my arms and legs stretching out like a star. "I want to stay a Hunter." I've worked hard for it over the last four years, carving out my place in the tribe, bringing in my share of the game that sustains us and provides trade.

"Not if you want Prim to be a Healer," she says.

I picture my little sister in the blue robes of a Healer. It's the only thing she ever talks about, the only thing she's ever wanted to be. And I could never sacrifice her dream to fulfill my own. At least at the end of my obligation, I could return to hunting, but they select Healers from those who have never taken part in a Reaping.

Gale reaches down and plucks one of the long blades of summer grass, twirling it between her fingers. "And it might be fun, you know. I'd help you. We could raise her together."

I prop myself up on elbows to look at her. What she's said would amount to a Joining, but…Gale couldn't possibly mean that. Beautiful, one of the best hunters, Gale could have anyone in the Tribe if she wanted and although we're hunting partners, she's never hinted at more, at least until now.

I scramble for something to say, but my mind's blank.

"Why couldn't your mother have had you two days earlier, huh?" she says, staring down at her crumpled blade of grass. "Then we'd both have been born on the sixth."

Oh, so that's why she said all that. She's just feeling guilty that I have to go to the Reaping and she doesn't. We dedicate the sixth day of each month to Artemis, the Goddess of the Hunt. Every daughter born on that day is committed to her as a blessed Hunter, exempt from the Reapings. I was born on the eighth of May and Gale was born on the sixth of November two years before that.

"But then," I add. "If I were exempt, Prim would have to go. She'd be the last member of our House."

Prim and I are the only two that bear a firebird on our arms, its flaming tail flicking out at the circle that encloses it. The image of the hawthorn tree circles Gale's arm, but she has three sister who will go to the Reaping in the next few years when they turn my age. The first, her sister Rory, will turn sixteen in four years.

I tilt my head up again, shading my eyes with my hand. From the sun's angle, I can tell that it's already noon. And I suddenly feel the need to get out of this conversation. "I have to get going. I hear the cleansing takes forever." I slip back into my sandals and grab my bow and game bag—nothing more than a few rabbits today—and hop off our rock.

"Katniss," Gale calls, stopping me. "Just don't…get attached to any of them."

I snort. It's true, some of the women like the Reapings, returning summer through winter even after fulfilling their obligations, but I can't see myself being one of them. "You don't have to worry about that."

The cleansing pools lie deep underground beneath our temple. This is all I am told of the Reaping preparations. Everything else is a secret to the uninitiated. I am given directions and a few words to say at the _right_ time, although I don't know _when_ that will be.

I follow the twisty torch-lit way deep into the earth. Instead of getting cooler belowground, it gets warmer, dank, and my tunic sticks to my back. The shadows shift in the fire light, casting strange images on the rough walls, flickering images that remind me of the vague and threatening nightmares I sometimes have, dreams that have me waking with a scream.

Beyond the pant of my breath and the crackle of the torches, I can't hear anything either. For a hunter, all of this is unbearable.

My breath comes faster and I long for my bow or even a knife, just something to clutch here in the dark, but no weapons are allowed in the temple.

The tunnel narrows and shortens until even I have to stoop a little before I come face to face with a solid rock wall.

I glare at the stone and swipe at the sweat on my forehead. Did I miss another passage in the dark? I look back down the corridor, but there's no way I could have. Even in the dark I would have sensed another opening.

"Katniss," a voice calls from somewhere in front of me. "Do you come here of your own free will and of your own volition?"

 _No,_ I think, but I ground out the given words, "I was born a daughter of the Twelfth Tribe. I shall die a daughter of the Twelfth Tribe. I volunteer as tribute."

There's a pause on the other side of the rock wall. "Well said." The voice sounds amused, as if it knows just how involuntary those words were. "Step forward and place your right hand on the stone."

Cautiously, I place my hand against the smooth gray-black stone of the wall in front of me. It compresses under my touch and then the whole wall grinds and splits in front of me to reveal a woman in a simple black sheath, a black cord looped around her waist. Even in the near darkness, her eyes are kind.

A fire pit in the center of the room illuminates her. Beyond the fire, I can just make out a steaming pool of water. A hot spring must feed the cleansing pools.

"I am Cinna," she says. "Welcome, daughter of the Tribe." She leads me over to a narrow stone bench with a silver goblet perched on top. The woman, Cinna, picks up the goblet. It's much smaller than a regular wine vessel, a decent swallow and it'd be gone.

"Drink this and then disrobe and Venia will help you with the cleansing." She gestures to what, at first just looks like another shadow, but it transforms into a women who slinks up to us on long, lean legs. Swirling blue and gold tattoos cover her skin.

There should be two dozen or more women attending the Reaping tonight, but there's no one else in the pulsing room. "Where are the others?"

"New initiates are prepped separately from the main group," Cinna says, pressing the goblet into my hand. "The others can be quite…boisterous."

"And I'm the only one this month?" I ask. I look down into the cup she's given me. The liquid is dark, almost black.

"Yes," Cinna murmurs. "Now drink."

I hesitate. "What is it?"

"It is only wine. A kind of purifying wine," she says.

I take a tiny sip. The wine is bitter, almost burnt tasting, sending a fiery spike down my throat and into my stomach. I sputter through the rest of it and put the glass back on the bench before taking a deep breath and striping off my tunic and pants. You learn early in the Tribe not to be shy about nudity, but it feels odd to be standing here exposed while the two of them are clothed.

But, before I finish undressing, Cinna has disappeared and it's only Venia there. "Let's get you cleaned of all that forest dirt," she says.

I roll my eyes a little and hope that in the dark, she didn't notice. The people that work at the temple or as artisans look down on those who work in the field, even the Hunters, though the forest is the holy realm of Artemis. It's a stupid prejudice. Besides, if the elders call us all to take up the shield of Warriors, who will be better prepared? War hasn't happened in two lifetimes, but it might.

Without bothering to take off her own tunic, Venia leads me to the edge of the pool and we both wade into the shoulder-deep water. The heat of the water melds with the heat of the wine in my belly.

At that moment, two very strange things happen.

First, my mind seems to drift up and away from my body, blown like a leaf from a tree. I see myself go limp in the water as Venia holds me up, balancing me against her shoulder as she lifts one naked arm and scrubs my skin with some kind of stiff brush and a grainy substance that looks like salt, but foams and bubbles like soap.

Second, time bends and folds in on itself and the me below is no longer in the pool, but another woman, not tattooed like Venia, but dyed a pea-green, is rubbing my body with oil and dusts me in what looks like gold.

It's strange, this new kind of seeing, but for some reason, most likely having to do with the wine, I'm not overly worried about it, just vaguely curious. I explore the curved ceiling of the cave as the women below pamper and prepare my body. The hot and cold air wafts up and whirls around me and I almost see a face in the steam: a face with steady, piercing eyes…

I come back to myself, mind and body uniting as the green-dyed woman braids my hair into an intricate crown.

"Back, are we now? Just in time for the Reaping," the woman says. "I'm Octavia, by the way." She finishes the braid. "You can take a look at yourself."

She leads me to a mirror sandwiched between two torches for light and I see the full effect. A dress like the firebird on my arm in the colors of flame. It shimmers as flame does, as well.

"And as a final touch," Cinna's soft voice calls. She lowers a half mask over my eyes. "This mask was created from the feathers of a true firebird."

They have made me a creature of fire and feathers. The calm I felt as I floated in the air remains with me and, for the first time I know I can succeed at the Reaping…succeed in any way I desire. I can fulfill my obligation or I can break all of the rules. The choice is mine. No one can restrain such a creature as they have created.

At sunset, I am lead back up to the world of the living and out to where all the other women who will take part in the Reaping wait in the forest. This part of our lands is beyond my normal hunting grounds, a walk of at least a day, but the tunnel through the cleansing pools cut the time to less than an hour. The others who now stand around me are beautiful in their finery, but none outshines what Cinna has transformed me into.

At the head of the group stands Snow and Trinket, the Joined couple who rule over us. Snow, with her long white hair coiled up into a bun, matches her name, icy cold, frozen. She clutches a long staff, shaped into a sacred snake. Her mate, Trinket, does much of the presiding now that Snow has gotten older. She wears a headdress of pink flowers.

"Welcome, welcome," Snow starts in her raspy voice. "One mile from here is the clearing where the Reaping will be held. As we all know, to the victor goes the spoil—the first one there receives the privilege of first choice." She points to the left, along the trodden path. "Go."

Before I know what I'm going, my feet are pounding the ground and I'm sprinting, the tiny bells wrapped three times around my bare ankles tinkling as I go. I'm the fastest runner in the tribe and I make it to the clearing a full minute before any of the others.

Annie makes it second. Usually, she is a very quiet girl, the same age as Gale, but tonight, she is Aphrodite, her face and breasts hidden by seashells, the skirt wrapped around her waist the iridescent pale green of sea foam.

The others drift in, barely running, until Snow makes it at last, leaning hard on her staff. Her wrinkled hand reaches out and pats Annie's face. You can tell she's trying not to squirm under the touch. "Ah, the impatience of youth," Snow says and the other women let out a smattering of laughter. "Which of you won?"

Annie points to me.

"Yes, our newest," Snow says, turning to look at me. Her hand strikes out, grabbing my marked arm and pulling it closer to her face. "And from the House of Firebirds. You know, the firebird is said to bring either a blessing or a curse. Let's hope your winning first choice is a herald of good."

Her eyes are sharp, as cold as the jeweled eyes of her snake staff. I don't say anything, but look down, and try to force down the queasy feeling growing in my stomach. I don't like being the center of attention. Thankfully, the other women are turning towards the clearing.

Torches, seemingly lit by themselves have begun to glow in a circle around the tree line. Someone beats a drum in a slow rhythm, the sound thumping and pounding in my chest.

Other figures appear on the far side of the clearing, stopping a few yards in front of us. My heart hammers along with the beat of the drum.

Men. I've never seen a man before. Of course, I have seen some of the months-old male babies before they take them away, but never a fully grown man.

The men are bare except for a cloth wrapped around their waists. Some are broad and some slender, but all their chests are flat. Most have shorn hair. They pair off, slowly circling their partner before slamming in to each other, heads pressed together, lifting and shoving.

"What are they doing," I ask Annie.

"They fight to show their strength," she whispers back to me. "So we can choose the most fit."

"It's stupid," I say. What is strength? Generations of the Twelfth Tribe ruling over the men of Panem prove that physical strength is nothing. Cunning, intelligence, skill—those qualities tipped the scales in our favor.

Beside me, Annie shrugs, her eyes fixed on one of the fighters. The man has a shock of hair the color of bronze and, even as untrained as I am in judging male beauty; I know he's gorgeous. He laughs as he fights, flipping the other man over with a flourish. A lot of the other women are watching him, too.

I finally connect this man to some of the whispering I'd heard at home. Although he's only been eligible for the Reaping for three seasons, he has already sired four children—all daughters for the Tribe. I think his name is Finnick.

The man who lost to Finnick goes back to the far side of the clearing where the defeated are gathering. The victors find other partners and keep battling each other, working through the ranks. It takes over an hour for the men to whittle themselves down to the last two and some of the woman begin to pass around wine and food as they watch the fights.

I can't relax enough to eat.

The last two seem about evenly matched and the fight drags into the night, until the full moon floats high overhead.

One is Finnick, a little dusty with a bruise blooming on his cheek, but still grinning. The other is blond, a little shorter than Finnick, but more broad-shouldered. He might be younger, too. The way he keeps glancing over at the women makes me think this is his first Reaping.

When his eyes finally light on me, he loses him grip on Finnick entirely and the two break apart, breathing hard.

"Keep starring, I can wait," Finnick says, head bowed, hands on his knees while he catches his breath.

Everyone laughs, but the boy seems to take it as some kind of permission because, for a long moment, he does stare. He stares until I feel myself blush under all the powder and paint. Now that it's dark, the outfit glows just as brightly as the actual fires illuminating the clearing.

The boy finally seems to tear his gaze away from my flickering and back to Finnick. After that, the fight's not even anymore. The boy seems to have gained a second wind and makes quick work of Finnick, pinning him down long enough for one of their leaders to name him victor.

The men form a line based on their rank in the fighting with the blond boy at the front. Their leader, a man named Coin, walks up to Snow. He looks severe, his graying hair cropped closely to his head. He hands Snow a golden scythe. It's much smaller than I imagine a real one would be, no larger than a hand axe.

"Here is your harvest, reap from it what you will," Coin says. These must be ceremonial words, but nothing can disguise the not-so-subtle bitterness in his voice. Snow walks past him, effectively ignoring Panem's leader. She hands the scythe to me.

"You first, my dear," she says. Snow turns to the gathered crowd and says in a loud voice that belies her age, "Katniss, of the House of Firebirds chooses first! Which Houses must step back?"

"None," a man, who'd been slumped on a tree stump the whole night, calls. He hadn't taken part in the fighting, but sat drinking from a goblet he kept refilling from a jug now lying tumbled over and empty in the grass. "There are none in our land with blood connections to that House."

This man must be Panem's Reciter, a man who memorizes the dizzying web of families and history to guard against too close relations. The Twelfth Tribe keeps written records, but the men of Panem don't have that skill.

This means my sire is dead. It means that he had no male children, no brothers of his own. For some reason, a diffused wave of sadness passes through me at the thought. It's ridiculous, really. I mean, I never met the man. A sire isn't part of you. Not like my sister and mother.

I walk down the long line of bare-chested men. Most of the men at the front of the line are younger; the others are older, probably part of my sire's generation. A few are even older than that.

I study the family symbols on their arms. Before they are given away at six months, male children are tattooed with the House of their matron. Later, if they become sires or fathers, they are marked with the emblem of those Houses as well. Some of these men have enough House symbols to cover their entire arm.

Think! What do I want? It's hard because I don't want to be here at all. I want to be back in my part of the forest, hunting with Gale or better yet, at home with my sister and mother eating stew made from one of the rabbits I shot this morning. This whole thing's too much like shopping for a goat in the market.

If I listen to the gossip, picking Finnick would be a sure bet. He would sire a daughter and all this could be over in five years. I'd have fulfilled my obligation and given a daughter over for training. I head back toward the front where Finnick is standing next to the blond.

I'm about to name Finnick when I notice he's doing what I used to do when I didn't want an instructor to call on me. Unlike the other men who puff out their chests the minute I get near them, Finnick is hunched down, studying his dusty feet with intensity.

I scowl at him. I know I may not be as beautiful as he is—most people aren't—but he doesn't have to make his rejection so clear. It's not as if I'm particularly eager to have him, either.

I'm tempted to pick Finnick out of spite, but then, defeated and mentally exhausted, I turn to the blond who took first place in the contest and hold the scythe out in front of him. His face bleaches white with shock, but his piercing eyes find mine. I note that they're a bright blue.

"This is your choice?" Snow asks.

I nod.

"What is your name?" Snow asks him. His eyes flit from me to the old woman behind me. "Peeta of the House of Lark."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Even from over a mile away, the cheers of celebration going on in the clearing still ring out, swelling in waves of laughter, chants, and moans. A few remaining women are still picking their consorts for the night of the full moon but, many who have already chosen, take their men right in the field among the trees and the crowd. I let the blond man—really, he's not much more than a boy—lead me back to his home, a round wooden building, thatched with golden straw.

He stoops to build a fire in the hearth, his movements quick and practiced and sure. He still wears only the cloth wrapped around his waist and the muscles of his back stretch and flex as he hunches over the wood. He seems fit. Physically strong.

That's good. It means my daughter will grow up strong as well. I watch the boy a moment longer. Strong…and maybe blonde like my mother and little sister. That would be nice.

The fire catches and in the dance of light and shadows, I see the well-ordered room, the clean woven mats upon the floor, the easel and chair for some kind of craft in one corner, the high four-legged bed against the wall. A gleaming copper bathtub sits behind a folding screen. I walk over to it, trail my hand against the smooth curved lip as the boy works on the fire.

Back home, we mostly visit the public bathhouse adjacent to the temple, but I know for this boy to have so much copper, he must be a part of Panem's small merchant class, those better off than the workers in the fields.

"Would you like a bath?" he asks. I look up to find the boy watching me. "I…I wasn't exactly prepared, but I can go get some water from the well and heat it. Or food. I have food if you would like to eat." He fumbles around on the table next to the hearth, gathering a loaf of bread, some cheese, a knife.

It's traditional, I know, for the man to serve and bathe the woman on the night of the Reaping, but I find myself not wanting to put this off now that I've made my decision. I want this over before I get too nervous.

I march over to the boy, Peeta, tug him down by the neck and press my lips against his, our lips clashing hard enough that my front teeth scrape the inside of my mouth. I go up on tiptoe to drag him closer.

I feel him seize up in shock beneath me, but then his hands are moving, encircling my waist, tracing up the curve of my spine.

It feels strange… strange…but not bad to be wrapped in masculine arms. His body is firm and smells of clean sweat and of hearth-baked bread and of the crisp green of the forest. Kissing…the whole thing is novel. Almost no one but my mother and sister ever touch me. I can't even remember Gale holding me and next to my family, I'm closest to her.

Peeta takes control of the kiss, molding his mouth to mine, somehow making the kisses softer, deeper. He brushes the seam of my lips with his tongue.

Boiling heat pools in my stomach, clawing at me like hunger, but deeper, lower, more insistent. This strange hunger is taking over when panic flares through me.

His touch is too warm, too intimate. This needs to be unemotional, impersonal—just me getting my daughter. And he's not supposed to be in control.

I let my arms drop from his shoulders, but he keeps his hands on my back, holding me close enough that I feel the pounding of his heart in my own chest. Our breath mingles as he stares down at me, dazed, the blue of his eyes only a bright ring around the dark of his pupils. His face and bare chest shimmer with streaks of the gold dust that coat my body.

His hand comes up and he draws his thumb across my cheek and then down the slope of my neck to my shoulder. "I didn't believe anyone would choose me. I definitely didn't think _you_ would choose me."

He looks so young and vulnerable, I almost forgot what a foreign creature he is, forget that I just want this over. "Why wouldn't I? You're strong. You won the fights."

His eyes search mine and then he looks disappointed. "You don't know? About the House of Lark?"

I reach out and touch the House symbol on his arm. The image is distorted since he's had it since he was a six-months-old baby, but I can make out the singing beak of the perched lark, the symbol of daybreak and hope, so different from the fiery bird flying on my own arm.

He looks away from me and swallows hard. "My father has three sons. I have two blood brothers."

At first I don't get what he's trying to say. Why would it matter if he has brothers?

But then I get it what he's saying.

There is one daughter of the House of Lark, an angry, mean-spirited prophetess, completely unsuited to from a House known for joy. She is in my mother's generation. There are none in mine, nor any among the young girls.

"Only male children," I whisper.

"Only sons," he says. "And my brother has a son."

I break out of the shelter of his arms and step back, banging my hip against the table.

No, no, no. I _can't_ have a male child. Male children don't _count_. It would mean a nine-month pregnancy, six months of nursing the child, and then having to start all over again to provide a daughter for the tribe.

More than a whole year added to my obligation.

My heartbeat doubles and I want to run.

Peeta comes forward, moves to pull me back into his arms. "Katniss, I can't guarantee …"

My hand finds the knife on the table. I raise it level with his chest. "Step back." I have to keep him away from me. I have to figure a way out of this.

Peeta hold his hands up like he's trying to calm some wild animal. "You don't have to do this."

I wave the knife toward the other corner with the chair and easel. "You're going to go sit over there until I say you can move. Go. Now."

He makes a show of going to sit down, keeping his hands up the whole time. "I've got to say, this is not how I imagined my first Reaping."

"Shut up," I say. "Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?"

"Yes, but I didn't believe it until today." He shakes his head. "You're right, I need to learn to _shut up_."

I should be glad he talks so much, if he hadn't told me, we'd be lying together right now, his seed might have already taken root inside me. A sharp pang of something like longing cuts deep inside me. I ignore it.

My feet pace a tight circle before I go over to his bed and climb up. The bed is narrow, barely wide enough for two slim people. I sit cross-legged facing the boy, still clutching the knife.

The women tell stories of crazed men, monsters who molested unwilling women in the times before the birth of the Twelfth Tribe. These are ancient, dusty tales, but the warning has been drummed into me: men are dangerous.

We watch each other across the room.

Peeta picks up a long, thin paintbrush from beside the easel and starts weaving it in and out between his fingers. It's a practiced move, he's not fully conscious that he's doing it. Gale always says I do the same thing with arrows when I'm worried.

"Are you some kind of artist?" As far as I know, they don't have artists in Panem. The men here mostly grow food. They spend the year working to exhaustion in the fields of wheat and grapes and in the orchards tending fruits and olives.

The paintbrush stops moving in his hand. He lays it down along with the others on the easel. "No, I draw the signs for my father's bakery and for the amphorae at the winemakers."

I picture the wine vessels we buy from Panem. It's one of our principle trades. We provide them with fresh meat and fish and luxury items, they supply us with grain and wine.

Instead of the plain clay vessels marked with a thumbprint we usually get, the batches of wine have become more like the crafted amphorae that are sold for decoration, hand painted with images of grape vines, dancing figures, famous scenes.

The last time I was in the market, the woman who runs the crafts stall grumbled that if the men had so much time on their hands, they should plant another field instead of taking business from her.

I pluck at the soft cushions lining his bed and stare.

He stares back with piercing blue eyes until he can't hold my gaze anymore and those eyes drift away from my face.

The silence pulls bow taunt.

"Would it be so bad to have a son?" he asks. It's an explosion of words, just this side of civil.

"Not a son," I say, correcting him. "A male child wouldn't be my son."

He shakes his head. "What I mean is, not everyone can have females or both the tribe and Panem die out."

I don't say anything. It's obvious he's right, but that doesn't mean I want to be martyred for the tribe or Panem. I'm already sacrificing years of my future for Prim, I won't give them a second more.

"Look," Peeta says. "If you don't want to stay here, I can go talk to Coin. Maybe there's someone left you won't find so objectionable."

He gets up and starts for the door.

I watch him go. Maybe it's for the best. I'm thinking I can still get this whole thing done tonight, but then fatigue seeps in and I know it's too late. I don't want to go through all of this again with some new man, a man who's already been rejected by everyone else, a leftover, bent over, gnarled man who is at least three times my age, maybe even their old drunken Reiter. My stomach heaves up into my throat at the thought.

"No, don't!" I call out before he can leave. "It's not that I object to you or even to a male child. It's just that don't want to take part in any of this. What I want is to go home to my family."

His hand freezes on the door and he turns back to me. "Do you have someone else? Someone at home?"

I say yes automatically, my mind on Prim, before I realize he means something different, not a sister, but a lover. For some reason, Gale pops into my mind, but that's not right, either. We're not together, despite her strange words…was that only this morning?

It doesn't matter, anyway. Most of the women of the tribe partner off eventually, but they are still obligated to take part in the Reapings. It must be the same with the men.

"Why," I ask. "Do you have someone?"

"No." He rubs at the gold dust staining his face. It doesn't come off, but smudges all around his eyes, highlighting the bright blue. "You can stay here, if you want. I won't hurt you or try anything, but I'm going to need at least half that bed.

"What?" My hand finds the handle of the knife still at my side. He can't mean…

"I can't spend all night in that chair." He shrugs. "You can take a crack at it, if you'd like, but I my leg can't take it." He gives his left thigh a pat and I notice the long scar along the length of it, a puckered and frowning slash mark, pink against his pale skin.

Compared to the right, the left is slightly withered too, as though he's sat for a while in a bathtub. Seeing this, his victory during the fights is more impressive. He must be incredibly strong.

"How did it happen?" I ask.

His face gets a closed off look—cool, guarded. "A wild dog."

I don't ask any more questions because I can tell I won't get any answers. "It's fine. We can both sleep here." I pat the cushion beneath me until I see the gold dust flake onto the fabric.

Peeta sees it too. "I could still draw water for a bath."

"If you have a basin of water that would be fine." I say.

He points to the little area hidden by the folding screen. A mirror, a clean cloth, a square of soap, and a small wooden basin filled with water sit on a shelf next to the copper tub. When I hear him moving somewhere on the other side of the room, I slide out of my dress and lay it against the tub where the fabric still glows faintly with the colors of fire.

I dip the washcloth into the water and squeeze out the excess. I rub the soap across the towel until the whole thing foams and I smell the sweet scent of lavender. I scrub at my face, my arms, everywhere I can reach without getting the floor too wet. I stop when I recognize my face in the mirror.

Something flies over the top of the screen and lands at my feet. It's an overlarge, sleeveless tunic, worn soft with repeated washings.

"Thought you may like something to sleep in." Peeta's too-close voice carries through the wood. The tunic falls to my knees.

I emerge to find that he's changed as well. He has on a tunic like the one he gave me as well as a pair of loose pants. The cushions on the bed have been either changed or flipped over. The hearth fire has been dampened down to smoldering logs.

He climbs into the tall bed and I climb in after him. If this were me and Gale, we would each have enough room to lie here without touching. Peeta swamps me and I have to lie nearly on top of him for both of us to fit.

Somehow, we get all the arms and legs comfortably tucked in. Lying on his chest, I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feel his breaths start to slow. It's not half bad, having a living mattress.

I'm gliding toward sleep when Peeta asks a question. "What are you going to do about next month's Reaping?"

"I'll do what I have to do for the tribe," I say. "Maybe research a little more next time."

My mattress rumbles under my head and chest while he laughs and then it stops. "You shouldn't have to go, not if you don't want to."

"I don't have a choice." Every woman, except the exempt, must provide at least one daughter for the tribe or die in the attempt.

"What happens if you can't have kids?"

"They declare you barren, but only if you've gone to the Reaping for a whole year and born no fruit."

"You could come here every month, if you wanted. I wouldn't mind."

I prop myself up to look at him. His face is sincere, thoughtful in the dying light. "But they might think it's you, not me. It would ruin your chances to have a son or sire a child for the tribe."

"It doesn't matter. I never had much of a chance anyway, with two brothers."

"Why would you help me?"

His hand wanders up, warm, pale fingers trace the House symbol on my arm. I start to jerk back, but his touch is just a quick graze across my skin. "I knew your father…I mean sire. He was of the Singers. Even the birds stopped singing when he sang. Everyone respected him; most people liked him, too."

"How'd he manage that?" Part of me doesn't want to hear about that half of my blood, but, another part is curious about the man who gave me my dark hair and gray eyes.

"A lot of it was the singing, but also because he was a bit of a criminal."

I feel my eyebrows rise and Peeta gives another chuckle. "Not a bad criminal. He didn't murder anybody or steal or anything like that. He would go out into the forest and hunt. He made himself a bow and everything."

The men of Panem aren't allowed to have weapons of any kind and they aren't allowed in the forest. No man is to enter the sacred realm of Artemis without leave of Snow.

"And he was good, too. A natural." Peeta's eyes flit away from mine, lost somewhere in the past. "He used to say that he knew when you came of age because the quality of the meat got so much better. He always said you took after him."

So, I got my skill with a bow from him along with my features. And he thought of me, too, wondered what I was like. There's a shaky feeling inside that I don't want to examine too closely because it might be tears. I don't want to cry in front of this boy over someone that shouldn't even matter to me.

The elders deemed my game good enough for trade when I was twelve so he must have been alive four years ago.

"How did he die," I whisper.

Peeta's face takes on that closed-off look again. "No one knows. He disappeared two years ago. After a month of searching, Coin declared him dead."

"But he might not be dead. He may have just… disappeared into the forest."

"I guess that's true," Peeta says quickly. He settles back down to sleep and I curl up against him. Again, his hand traces the House symbol on my arm.

"If you ever change your mind, tell me" he says quietly. "I would be proud to bear the symbol of his House."

I want to be irritated at his words—this is the symbol of _my_ House, not my sire's—but I'm too tired to work up a strong emotion and so I float to sleep against the rhythm of Peeta's heartbeat.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I make my way back to our lands in the light of early morning amidst the rising songs of birds. The boy was still asleep, stretched out beside me on the bed and I’d wanted to stay there, relaxed and warm in his arms but, it had frightened me, that feeling, and I’d left.

I follow the path tramped through the wood last night by a dozen pairs of feet and, with every step, I try to come back to myself and shake off the strangeness of the Reaping. The insistent beat of drums, the costume, the haze of smoke and smell of sex—In those hours you’ve not yourself and I have to work hard to remember the me I was a day ago. I am Katniss of the House of Firebirds. A hunter of the Twelfth Tribe. I am sixteen years old.

I’m halfway to myself when I come upon the temple. It’s the back of the building, the classic lines melting in rough-hewn stone and what I now know are maze-like tunnels.

I round the building and enter the smaller side building where the healing rooms are located. My mother and sister should be here by now and they’ll want to see me. They spend most of their time here, working with the sick, studying the plants and medicines of healing.

The first person I see isn’t my mother, but I feel a sudden jar of shocked recognition. A moonbeam-blonde woman stands in front of me, her face set in a permanent frown, a lark marks her bare arm and she wears the white, floor-length robes of a priestess. Along with Snow, the priestess’ act as a governing body, writing laws and issuing judgements, like the judgement I’m receiving right now. Her eyes are cold, full of distain as they rake over me. She looks me up and down, her critical eyes taking in the oversized tunic I still wear, my bare feet, my body still smudged with the gold of last night’s glorious costume.

“You are returning from the Reaping, Daughter of Firebirds?”

“Yes, Daughter of the House of Lark,” I say. She arches an eyebrow at me, still disapproving, and I realize what she wants. “I mean, Priestess of the House of Lark,” I correct, using her title.

She nods, looking slightly mollified. “Well, you cannot enter the house of healing until you have gone through the cleansing. We would not want to infect the sick with some pestilence you received during your…exertions in the village of men.”

Bristling, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something nasty to her, instead I force myself to walk down the steps to the cleansing pools. She acts as though the Reaping were something dirty, when it has been blessed by the High Priestess and sacred.

I fume the whole time I’m disrobing for the baths. Would she have acted the same way if she’d known I’d chosen her male child at the Reaping? Probably. She would be embarrassed to admit she ever conceived a male child.

Strange how this woman could have given birth to the boy I met last night. I can’t help thinking it was good that she didn’t raise him, that somehow she would have made him cold and stern like her.

I pass through the waterfall, the ever-flowing shower of cool water in the first of the bathing rooms and then take a towel and small jar of oil from an attendant and head to the pools.

Like the cleansing pool for the Reapings, these pools are fed from hot springs, but unlike that large central pool, there are multiple small pools here, some big enough for four or five, others only for one or two. Today, the pools are full of laughing women, splashing water, boisterous after the Reaping.

Normally, I like to bathe by myself, but there aren’t any empty pools.  I’m almost tempted just to leave. I’ve already taken the cold bath, but that priestess would somehow know that I didn’t go through the whole cleansing and kick me out of the house of healing again.

I see Annie alone in a medium size pool in the far corner and head over to her.

“Can I bathe here?” I ask. She nods through the curtain of her long brown hair and I quickly drop the towel and slip into the hot water. All the pools here have been carved into squares with seats. Some have seats facing the same way, usually reserved for lovers, but these face in opposite directions.

“Did you have a pleasant Reaping?” I ask.  It’s a tame question for the morning after the Reaping. Reaping night stories get bawdy quickly.

“Pleasant enough,” Annie says softly. “And you? Your first Reaping?”

“Yes, pleasant.” I answer.

We don’t speak much after that. I’m horrible at making small talk and Annie has always been quiet, but she got even more quiet after her mate died. They both worked in the fishery down by the coast. It wasn’t official, their joining, but they’d been together for years it was just common knowledge that they would be together after their Reapings bore fruit.

 It didn’t work out that way, the girl died in a drowning accident and Annie had seemed so lost. It had been so bad, the healers kept her back from her first Reaping for over a year. She probably wanted it over fast, though, she’d chosen Finnick after I chose Peeta. She would have her mandatory daughter soon.

I finish my bath quickly, not lingering like some of the more social people. I braid my straight hair bac and dress in a proper green hunter’s tunic before heading back up to the house of healing. Hopefully this time I can avoid the sour priestess.

Prim greets me, throwing herself into my arms, her lilac-colored apprentice robes a pretty contrast with her yellow hair. “Katniss!” she calls, squeezing me tight.

“How are you, little one?”

“Missing my sister,” she says. “It’s been weeks.”

“A week and a half,” I say. Hunting takes up most of my time and the rest is setting and checking traps and practice. It leaves little time to see my family, but hunting is the only place I really feel at home.

“And I’m not so little anymore. Soon, I’ll be taller than you.”

I look at my little sister with new eyes. She’s already up to my shoulder and she’s only twelve. I wonder if it’s because she gained her features from her sire or because she grew up easier than me, with food brought at the market and long hours of sleep.

When my mother decided that Prim would remain at home instead of going to the camps like I did, I was jealous at first, angry that she would grow up with our mother while I had only teachers and a weekly visit home. Now I know it was for the best. Prim is a natural healer and I am a natural hunter.

“We are learning more about healing herbs this week,” Prim says. She talks about what she is learning as we go through the healing houses. I try not to look at the ill, I can’t take it. Most have simple maladies, but some are maimed, screaming in pain. We make it to the room where our mother works.

She is not a healer, me and Prim are proof that she’s taken part in the Reaping, so she wears the brown tunic of a healer’s assistant. Her real talent, though, is in the creation of medicines. She’s pounding a dried herb into a fine powder when we walk in.

My mother is like my sister, blonde and blue-eyed, beautiful, calm and regal in her workroom of healing.  “My daughters,” she says. “It is wonderful to have you both here.” She looks surprised and pleased, pulling both of us into her arms and squeezing tight. The surprised look is because me. We haven’t had the closest relationship. Hunting takes up most of my time and it’s harder getting to know a parent, trusting her when you only see her once a week.

We sit together and my mother makes mint tea for us to drink, the taste and scent calming the tattered edges of my nerves. Surrounded by my family, it feels like my thoughts are wholly my own for the first time since the Reaping. Prim chatters away, but my mother watches me, her face thoughtful. After a while, she shoos Prim back to her training and then we are alone.

“How are you, my daughter? Your first Reaping, it can be…overwhelming. Did you come to see me for… some kind of healing?”

“No, nothing like that.” Telling her what happened isn’t an option.  I look down into the dregs in the bottom of my cup. Legend say that you glimpse the future in tea leaves, but everything I see is withered and spent. “But I did learn that my sire disappeared.” I watch her face, waiting for something, but there is no reaction.

“I think I heard the same years ago,” she says. She stands and gathers up the cups, nesting them inside one another, and carries them to the counter before fiddling with one of the planters of rosemary growing on the sill.

“What do you think happened to him?” I walk over to her, watch as she waters the plants.

“I wouldn’t know,” she says, putting down the watering pitcher. “He is only you and your sister’s sire, nothing more.”

“Prim and I have the same sire?” It hadn’t occurred to me before, but if there were no others in Panem with the mark of the Firebirds, the same man had to be both our sires. It wasn’t something people talked about, outside of Reapings and Joinings it wasn’t important. I’d always imagined she had a different sire, someone blond and gentle like her.

My mother keeps her eyes on the plants. “It was just convenient and....” She reaches up to caress my cheek. “I had such excellent results the first time.”

I leave after that, letting her get back to her work, and head for the woods, for mine and Gale’s rock in the clearing.

This part of the woods is as familiar to me as my own body and as much a part of me. I collect one of my spare bows from a hollowed out tree. It’s late in the morning and I’m sure Gale has left our meeting spot hours ago, but when I enter the clearing, I see her there, waiting for me.

She stays seated while I walk up to her, her eyes searching mine like she’s looking for some kind of difference, some change. “Well,” she says. “Should I start making a miniature bow and arrow set now or should we wait to see if she’s left or right-handed?”

Quiet laughter shakes my shoulders. “Nothing happened, Gale.”

She sits up. “What do you mean, nothing happened? You went to the Reaping.”

I sit down on our rock and tell her about the boy and the deal we made. As I go on, the tension in my hunting partner seeps away and she relaxes beside me, leaning into my side. “And you trust him?” Gale asks.

Do I trust Peeta? I think of the boy with his bad leg and piercing blue eyes, his easy smile and the intensity that sometimes lurks behind it. I have no reason not to trust him; he’s the one doing me a favor.

“I think I do,” I say slowly. “He was nice to me when he didn’t have to be.”

“You’ve always had too big a soft spot.” She slips her hand down the length of my braid, tugging gently at the end. She’d done that forever, as long as I’ve known her, but now it feels somehow different, more intimate. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I hated thinking about…thinking about some man touching you.” Suddenly, her arms surround me, holding me in a way she never has before and then her lips press to mine, insistent and firm.

Gale’s long, lean body against mine, the touch of her lips is almost familiar, as well-known to me as the woods around us, as the beat of my own heart. Gale is the first to pull away, leaning her forehead against mine, breathing hard. She’s about to kiss me again when I call her name.

“We shouldn’t,” I whisper. “At least not now, not until I know if this plan is going to work and I can stay a hunter.”

“I told you I don’t care if you’re a hunter or not.”

“I care and I can’t think about anything like this until I know.”

Gale’s gray eyes find mine, a reproachful gray, a gray as solemn as a vow. “Then we wait.”

I close my eyes and nod, not sure exactly what I’m agreeing to, but knowing that with one kiss the relationship between Gale and me has been irrevocably changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Story is based on the myth(?) of the female Amazons and the neighboring all-male Gargareans.
> 
> Just in case the genders were confusing:  
> Gale: female Amazon hunter  
> Rory: young Amazon female  
> Cinna: female Amazon temple worker  
> Snow: female leader of the Amazons  
> Coin: male leader of Panem  
> everyone else: same gender/sex as in canon


End file.
